


I'd Love To Learn When To Shut My Mouth (except when I'm with you)

by plant_boi_potter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Eventual Drarry, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Smoking, Songfic, Swearing, allusions to sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:27:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22845577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plant_boi_potter/pseuds/plant_boi_potter
Summary: Draco drinks.A lot.Harry rescues him.Loosely based onLast Night by Lucy Spraggen
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

Draco didn't smoke. It was vulgar. 

Or at least Draco didn't smoke until March, because it had been vulgar, previously, until March. 

Released from his parents hold unexpectedly, he'd spiralled. Quite dramatically, too, if he might add. His mother had begged for him to come with them, of course, as soon as his father came out of Azkaban. He'd stoutly refused the offer. Even a portkey to France would be too much time trapped in a small space with Lucius these days. 

For the most part, he was thankful to have the manor to himself. The only thing that had really changed was the House Elf Tax, but he had enough money to cover that. Provided he pretended to shake Potter's hand in solidarity - discretely washing it quite vigorously afterwards - and as long as he didn't overdo it at Ministry functions.

It was barely work. For all Potter grumbled though, it was as though he was doing a life sentence - and it wasn't him who had to cobble together retribution speeches for a stadium-wide audience at arse o' clock in the morning. 

The House Elf Tax was one thing. What Draco never had enough money for, however, were friends. Not for lack of trying, but people just didn't want to associate with the Malfoy name when it was anywhere outside of Saint Potters personal interest. 

He lit another cigarette, having barely let the first drop to the pavement as he ground the butt in with his heel, grimacing at the ash residue the wind insisted on imparting up the back of his shoe. 

Not halfway through the second cigarette he started shivering. Smoke curled around his nostrils like dragons breath and it was only halfway between him trying to wrap his left hand around the tiny orange ember of fire that he realised he didn't actually have to stand outside in the draughty doorway of The Blind Phoenix. 

* * *

There was an actual cigarette bin, Merlin knows why, on the inside porch. Draco busied himself with halfheartedly rubbing the back of his white (now grey) heel with his cloak, before giving up and dropping the cloak on top of someone else's on the only available hook. 

Purple drapes hung just inside the second door, trying - and failing spectacularly - to give some modicum of privacy. Draco almost snorted. The Phoenix was known for a lot of things but it was definitely not their privacy.

He supposed some clubs used a modified fidellius charm, but they were reserved for the elite, so he wouldn't know anything about that. He supposed his parents might. He instantly wrinkled his nose at the idea of Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy sharing a bottle of Odgen's finest and complaining about the poor service despite having the best seat in the house. 

The thought wasn't quite a memory. It was a warped version of what used to happen at restaurants. And balls. And weddings. He decided it was probably safer to start retching after he'd consumed some alcohol, instead of before. It was far too soon in the night for all that, regardless of how dark the club was. 

He got the headache on the way to the bar. 

Bass thrummed under his feet and up through his bones whilst glaring white strobe-lights blinked in and out of focus overhead. Draco assumed they were supposed to mimic some sort of shooting star but he couldn't tell, and he wasn't about to risk his perfectly good eyesight in order to find out. 

"Maybe if I looked more like sodding Harry Potter the general public would like me better." He mumbled, slipping, quite literally into a bar stool. He was about to put his fingers up to request a drink when he felt someone shift into the seat beside him. 

"Sorry." The voice strained over the sound of the music. "Did you say Harry Potter?" 

"Oh for Sala-" Draco caught himself. No-one spoke to him outside of Potter's stupid charity fundraisers and speeches, he might as well bandy the bloke's name around for some purpose. "Yes, I did." 

Draco turned to look at the man. Dark stubble grazed his jaw and his hair tickled at his neckline, where his shirt was. Draco studied the strands for a lingering moment before dragging his eyes up to the strangers face. 

No glasses, he noted. 

"You don't look like you're too fond of him, or me." The man laughed a little as Draco fought to school his features into something other than a frown. "Would you like a drink?"

Draco stared longingly at the shelves lined with single malt whisky and rich red wine. "Vodka. Please." 

The man nodded understandingly and Draco looked away while he shuffled through his trouser pocket for his wallet, just in case. 

"No need. Trey will put it on my tab." Oh. So he was arrogant too, just Draco's luck, someone who looked like Potter and acted like him. 

It was infuriating how the man smiled with such ease. No one smiled like that after the war, not even Potter, regardless of his blase attitude. Draco bit his tongue instead, just for something to do. He'd been doing it a lot lately.

Draco took a long swig of his vodka almost as soon as it was put down on the beer mat. He pretended with all the aloofness of an angry swan that his sleeve wasn't dampening from the small puddle of un-mopped alcohol that had spilled onto the beer mat. Especially as he was ninety percent sure he hadn't spilled his own drink yet. 

The man held out his hand. "I'm Lark." 

* * *

Everything was fuzzy around the edges, if he squinted a bit he could almost, almost pretend Lark actually did wear glasses after all. 

"Draco? Are you alright?" 

Draco took another sip of his drink (the vodka had been replaced with something a lot more fruity and a lot more alcoholic over the course of the hour), forcing himself to behave as not-Harry bent towards him. 

Draco waved him off. "Yes, yes. I'm fine." 

"Oh, well. In that case, if you're up for it, you could come back to mine later?"

"Nonsense. The manors bigger." 

"Oh." Lark went from looking shocked to bemused in the span of about ten seconds. "Oh!" Draco wondered, for the first time, how old he was. "Yeah, I'll- I'll do that then. Can I nip off to the Potions Room first though?"

The Potions Room was a small room off to their left, embossed with a black nameplate bearing the same name. Draco had hardly glanced at it, purposely sitting as far away from the place as humanly possible. 

"Of course." Draco waved him away with a flourish of his hand. The man could do what he liked, he was the one who'd been throwing around his sickles all evening. 

A splash of purple liquid fell onto Draco's shoe as he spun one hundred and eighty degrees in the bar stool to watch his companion leave. 

Yes, he was definitely more appealing from behind. 

* * *

"Someone's getting married."

"Huh?" Lark looped his arm around Draco as they pushed their way through the door, the warmth evaporating as soon as the heat and smoke was locked safely back inside the Pheonix.

Draco jerked his head in the direction of the newspaper that had been pasted onto a bulletin board with a poorly applied sticking charm. "In the prophet. Do you reckon we should?"

"Get married?" Lark quirked an eyebrow in Draco's direction but didn't oppose him.

"Yeah, why not?" Draco felt a flash of heat tingle down his spine as he lent into Lark, angling his body away from the wind. 

"You're cute when you're drunk. I'll think about it in the morning when I'm... not." Lark bubbled, the laughter bursting out of him as they stumbled around the corner, the nearest multi-location Portkey emitting a familiar faint blue light. Above it probably read the words "Don't Drink & Splinch!" But everything was spinning, so Draco couldn't really tell.

* * *

Weak sunlight didn't so much stream through the window as it did jump. By Draco's body clock, it was dark and then it wasn't, there hadn't been an early morning in between any of it. A weight shifted in the bed that certainly wasn't him and he almost yelled. 

Instead, he turned over, carefully, steadying his breathing as he watched long, dark hair shift against his pillow. 

Draco shut his eyes, trying to refocus the wavering images he'd managed to dredge up from last night... and if the hair was anything to go by..

"Morning, Potter." Draco mumbled, deciding it was probably best to hide his blush in the bed sheets if the man ever bloody woke.

"Hah. No chance." 

Shit. Not Potter then.

Who was he? He had a stupid name. Was it a tree? Or a flower?

"You've also got a stupid name, for the record." God, Draco needed to learn to shut up. "I also don't plan on marrying you."

"Marrying me what the-" Draco cut himself off as he spied the clothes he'd kicked off earlier in the night. Apart from them being all over his room, a lone shoe sat snuggled in the corner. A lone shoe with a big, purple stain on the upper part of his shoe. 

"I'd better be going anyway-" Draco was about to ask for the man-who-certainly-was-not-Potter's age, but before he could he was cut off by his voice - clearly he hadn't finished his little goodbye speech "-I'd better be getting back to the Mrs."

Granted. Not the best situation he could have gotten himself into. At least he was of age. Draco shivered, retching over the side of the bed once before zeroing in on the carpet. 

It was pink.

This was his parents room. His parents bed. 

Fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

"Are you sure you don't want any of us to come with you?" 

Draco put his head in his hands. He couldn't stand to look at anyone's concerned faces, especially not in the current circumstances. He knew his workmates all acted like buddies - going to the pub, asking each other round for curry - but really, this was bordering on unprofessional.

Says the man with his head in his hands at a pub, surrounded by concern, his shirtsleeve sliding down his forearm and sticking there just long enough for someone to cough politely before he grabbed his sleeve with his right hand and yanked it roughly up so he could grip it tightly, making a fist where the button had fallen off. 

He couldn't tell whether it had happened when he'd pulled it out of his closet this morning or earlier in the night, all he knew was there was no button on the floor, and he only knew that because his head was on the table, eyes glaring straight down at the clean slabs of stone beneath his rickety wooden chair.

He sighed, realising he'd eventually have to contribute to the conversation going on over his head. "No. Thank you very much. I do not need anyone to accompany me to my mother's summer home I'm very capable of using an International Floo Connection." 

"And what about when you get back?"

Draco waved a hand. "I'll figure it out." 

He really couldn't bear to look up, his cheeks burned whenever Harry spoke, especially in those soft, soothing tones. Especially after a couple of nights ago when he-. No. If he didn't think about it, it would go away.

He'd told himself this about going to see Lucius and Narcissa in their summer house in Brittany, yet, somehow, here he was. 

He'd hoped Shacklebolt wouldn't give him the time off; make up some flimsy excuse about hours like he did with Potter, but no. Since Draco got up at the ass-crack of dawn every Monday to Friday and Potter came in around lunchtime and sometimes skipped Thursdays altogether Draco was 'entitled to a few days off'. It was ridiculous. 

He'd said so too, quite loudly, through a pounding hangover. Luna had rubbed his back and led him from the office, he was sure she'd said something about having a potion in her bag but he'd never actually seen her retrieve anything. 

She was working as Shacklebolt's secretary part time "just until the business gets off the ground". Surprisingly, Draco learned, the business venture was in fact, carpentry. "I know," Luna shook her head as she meandered through mostly deserted hallways, Draco trailing behind her like a dejected puppy, "everyone seems to think I should be off travelling the world, or planting flowers or something but I just don't see it." 

When Draco properly looked at her later, at the pub before everyone else crowded in, he nodded appealingly. Her hair was swept up in a ponytail, although it still managed to reach halfway down her back. She'd positioned her wand in such a way that it cut straight down the middle, focusing a little ball of energy on the mass of blond locks so they'd stay in place. 

It'd been Granger's innovation, if he remembered correctly, God knows Potter hadn't developed any of his grandfather's talent for hair potions. However, the way Luna wore the spell was unique. 

"Dangerous." Hermione had commented once. 

* * *

He could see Luna's shoes from where he was lying against the table. They were small and brown, Mary Janes, he thought they were called. He couldn't really care less. Especially as they'd been offset with some garish striped tights in some shade of traffic-cone orange. 

"So, Draco, would you like to be walked to your departure spot?" 

Draco raised his head, giving her a fleeting smile. "That's be... great actually, Luna. Thank you."

"Perfect! Harry will be ready in a minute!"

"Harry will what now?"

* * *

Harry had brought a cloak. 

Draco quirked an eyebrow, clearly amused. He didn't even wear cloaks to the office, hated them so much, in fact that he'd rather get formally reprimanded for dress code every time rather than just... come in in work robes. Honestly. The nerve of him.

"Fancy. What's the occasion?" Draco tried his hardest to look disinterested but it was hard to feign disinterest while staring directly at the way a piece of fabric joins over one's shoulders. 

"Uh..." Harry's cheeks turned blush pink. Draco suspected if he could move the birds nest that just about passed for hair out of the way, the tips of his ears would be pink too. "It's laundry day."

Draco inhaled his laugh so quickly that it came out as a snort, which, of course, Harry had fun mimicking for the five minutes it took to walk back to Draco's. By the time they got to the door they were both in stitches, having to catch their breath before saying their goodbyes. 

As soon as the laughter stopped though, silence bloomed, large and wide like an unfurling rose. 

A bird overhead sqwarked, darting in and out of the trees and bushes leading up the front path. Harry tracked it's movements for a while, while Draco tracked Harry's. 

"A lark!"

"Where!" Draco yelped, turning in a quick circle, trying to get a glimpse of messy brown hair and- he didn't know what colour Larks eyes were. He didn't care. Because right now Harry was grasping his shoulder, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth - the way he always smiled, the way everyone smiled after the war, like they aren't sure whether they're allowed to - his eyes filled with mirth. His bright, green eyes. 

"I don't know what that was and I don't think I really want to, so I'll leave you to it, yeah?"

Draco breathed through his nose as Harry held out his hand. They'd done this over and over again for camera crews and journalists - war solidarity and all that - but here, under the dappled light of an oak, it felt worlds away. 

There was a finality to it, as Draco placed his palm in Harry's, feeling the rough, calloused warmth. 

"Oh come on. We've known each other long enough."

And with that Draco was swept up into Harry's arms, in an embrace that he couldn't describe if he tried. All he knew was he didnt want to let go.


	3. Chapter 3

He flooed okay. If you'd classify okay as getting chimney soot all over the knotted wooden floor and then knocking half of the floo powder into the knolls for good measure. And that was when he noticed Mr. Malfoy strolling through the hallway.

"At least it can't get any worse." Draco whispered to himself as he vanished the soot and righted the floo powder. He decided to re-tie his shoe the Muggle way, whether it was to avoid looking his father in the eye or to piss him off, he hadn't quite decided yet. 

He practically felt Lucius drag his hand down his face in slow motion, probably to avoid looking at his son, who was currently kneeling on his floor, frantically making complicated knots in his shoe with a wand hanging from his mouth. 

"Who taught you to do that? Not Potter I hope?" Lucius sneered, but it wasn't nearly as menacing as it had been when he was a child. If Draco thought about it, after all this time he was probably more scared of Aunt Andromeda than both of his parents combined. 

"Harry? No- I started smoking." As if to prove it, Draco pulled the wand from his teeth, holding it aloft between his forefingers. 

"Harry now is it?" Lucius looked as though he'd sucked on a lemon. Just thinking about it made Draco want to laugh. 

He bit the tip of his tongue instead. 

"Have you seen mother anywhere? I'd like to see her before dinner, if that's quite alright." Draco cringed at himself. He knew the way he spoke wasn't brilliant but here it just seemed to get worse, especially in the presence of his parents. He suspected it was because there was no-one there to correct him. (Or, as Harry had once so eloquently told him: "You sound poncey, cut it out".)

"Are you getting on with my House Elves, Draco?"

Draco was sure Lucius was trying for something cunning, but since Draco didn't know what it was, he just nodded. 

"I see. Ah, Narcissa. Your son is here to see you."

Your son. Not our son. Draco sighed, before seating himself on an armchair that opposed his mothers, ignoring the lace doily he'd neglected to remove. 

"And so it begins." He whispered.

* * *

The beach house was pleasent, ignoring the air of forgotten Grandma the decor seemed to suggest. The bay windows opened wide, out to the foaming waves, and the sea air blew in from the rocky coves, hanging low and salty in the air. Draco found himself turning to Narcissa, who immoderately set her newspaper in her lap, laying her hands daintily atop the image moving atop the front page.

"So, how are you, Draco?"

"I'm well, thank you, mother." 

Narcissa fixed him with a pointed glare before shifting her paper in her lap, eventually deciding to flick through it, and Draco watched as it once more obscured her face. The way Narcissa sat, her ankles so obviously crossed at the balls, her back ridgid, The Prophet may as well have been an expensive pair of sunglasses.

The figure that she'd previously hidden flickered across the front page, stopping in the centre to fix on Draco. Big, brown eyes stared out from the page, like an owl, sizing up it's prey. 

The headline was printed in bold, black letters:

LOCK UP YOUR DRINKS CABINET: DRACO ON THE LOOSE

The subheading wasn't much better:

"He called me Potter!" Flip to Page 3 for full exclusive!

"Bastard." Draco whispered, Narcissa pulled the newspaper down from her eyes, raising an arched brow in Draco's direction. 

"I'm saddened you don't get the Prophet delivered any more Draco. I hear page three is... interesting."

* * *

"But _our _son with-"__

____

__

"Behind our backs with-"

Draco waited on the other side of the door, already cringing at the very obvious homophobia that was about to occur. 

"I know. I can't bring myself-"

"-with a Muggleborn!" 

Draco barked a laugh, turning it into a cough as he stepped away from the door. His father had been out of prison six months and still, neither of them could hold their tongues around their prejudices. Merlin. "I hope I wasn't interrupting anything, Draco."

"Of course not, I was merely waiting to be allowed into the parlour. Of course, that's if you trust me near your wine cellar." 

It was Draco's turn to quirk an eyebrow. He and his mother were playing such a petty game but it was better than airing their dirty laundry to the neighbours. Neither of them were ones for shouting; Lucius did quite enough shouting for the both of them. 

Before either of his parents could argue for or against, Draco rushed to the wine cellar on his own accord. 

Of course, it had a few wards, but they'd been coming to Brittany since Draco was four, and Narcissa had only made this her permanent residence after Draco had turned eighteen. He knew the wards inside out, which was lucky considering he wouldn't put it past his father to do such a thing. 

* * *

The wine cellar was cool and dry, and quiet. His head was pounding. Draco knew he would never get used to the dry heat of Brittany the way Narcissa had. For all her faults, his mother always looked immaculate, even now, with the greying streaks slicing through her blonde hair - it only served to make her look like a fractured mirror when she moved, beautiful and strange. 

Although he would never say it to her face, he could understand why his father had wanted to marry her. 

He emerged from the wine cellar a minute later clutching a rich, red Beaudoux. Clutching probably wasn't right, more like cradling. The wine crooked at an angle under one slender pale arm as he moved stealthily over to the glass cabinet in the corner of the room, prising a glass from the exact middle of the shelf. 

"So," Draco unpopped the cork of what was now his wine. He listened as it made a satisfying whistling noise, the trapped air finally set free. "you're free to criticise... after my fourth glass." He kept his eyes locked on his father's as he poured himself a generous amount of wine.

God, he was so fucked.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry found Draco draped over a statue of the French president - in France - at the foot of an out of date portkey, with drool dripping steadily onto the path beneath him.

"Oh for Merlin's sake." Harry bundled Draco, all long, dangling limbs and unusually hard stomach over his shoulder. "You'd better keep your appendages inside the damn car." Harry whispered softly as he apparated them back to England, accompanied to the never-ending tune of carnival music in Harry's head. 

* * *

"Did you have a nice time at your parents?"

Draco rolled over and for a single, terrible moment, he was back in his parents bed with a man he didn't know, who had a wife. 

Well, his wife knew now didn't she. "Hah." He mumbled sleepily to himself as he wiped away the drool that had collected on his pillow. 

"Hello. Earth to Malfoy? Are you awake?"

In lieu of an answer, Draco yawned, flipped over and grabbed the pillow from behind his head, tossing it in the general direction of the owner of the voice. "Go away!"

He blinked, about to wipe the sleep from his eyes with his shirt. Instead, Draco jerked upright as his long, cold fingers came into contact with his nipples. The first thing he saw was a long nest of dark hair.

"Oh crap, not again."

"Not again?" A rich, deep chuckle sounded from across the room. "So, Lark Finchham wasn't lying. then?"

"Lark Finchham. You have to be kidding me." Fucking birds."

"Birds?"

"I knew it was trees or something- the name. I mean come on I was so close-" Draco cut himself off, fully taking in the scene around him. He wasn't in his bed. His shirt and shoes were nowhere to be found and the eyes that were staring back at him... well, they were very green.

"Shit." He scrambled back, lifting the quilt over his shoulders as he did so. "I am not prepared for this."

"And I am?" Harry's eyebrows disappeared into his hair as he watched Draco frantically search the room for his clothes without moving from the bed. 

"Relax, they're in the wash, along with your shoes. One of them was purple?"

"Oh God. Don't ask." Draco moaned as Harry held his hands up in mock surrender. 

"Why? Think I'm going to sell you out to the Prophet?"Draco was sure his already slight blush darkened to a maroon. Maybe a scarlet, he definitely wouldn't look out of place in the room he was in: all deep reds and bright golds. "Sorry." Harry said, "that was probably in poor taste."

"You think?"

He touched his hair gingerly before zeroing in on Harry's dresser. "Is that a... Chudley Cannons scarf? That's it. Crush on you well and truly finished."

"Oh? It was quite nice while it lasted."

"Hey! Shut up. Stop bullying me."

"I'm not bullying you, I was trying to be genuine." Harry rolled his eyes as he came to sit on the bed. 

"Oh. Yeah, sure you were." 

"Are you always going to be so smart when someone shows you genuine emotional connection?” Harry waved a hand dismissively, he wasn’t about to get into all that now. “Would you like me to prove it to you?" Harry's eyes searched Draco's face when he shrugged. Whatever he found there was obviously enough, because not a minute later, a brown hand was cupping Draco's chin, thumb and forefinger resting either side of his cheeks in a delicate bowl. 

Warmth flooded through Draco and he couldn't tell if it were Harry's hands or his own cheeks, or both, but when he leaned up into Harry's lips, it didn't matter anymore. 

He leaned up into him, his throat a long, angular line as he craned up to meet Harry where he was kneeling on the bed, his hair falling gently over his face as he lent down to capture Draco in another kiss. 

After half a minute Draco leaned back on his hands, and he felt Harry pull away. His hair was sticking to the back of his neck and Harry's was more mussed than Draco had ever seen it. His lip quirked as he looked at Harry, dishevelled and bright eyed. 

"Let them sell that to the Daily Prophet."

**Author's Note:**

> Do I know what this is? No.  
> Did I enjoy writing it? Also no, but now it's finished I hope you enjoy it anyway.


End file.
